Licking at crumbs

You know them well, those
tamed and well trained city pups.
The dunners and yappers
replete in pinstripe and penury;
the high polish of their John Lobbs,
scattering the pigeons
pecking at scraps.

It’s like a conveyor belt,
stiff armed, shoulder bowed,
heads like nodding dogs,
coming and going in servitude,
as from the tunnel a dragon roars,
beckoning with it’s open jaws.

Often, as is the city’s wont, it rains,
and the black, bobbing cloud that snaps
to attention seems impenetrable
when viewed from the high tables
on the thirtieth floor; though on
careful inspection, there are gaps,
a scattering of crumbs.

Sometimes, the sun shines through;
when it does, there are those who
glean an understanding of how a man
can enjoy the soil trapped beneath
cracked and weathered fingernails;
how he can trace each precious little
seed to its final windblown rest.

Mostly though, ‘it’s just the way it is,’
they say, not really understanding
the synergy between balance
sheet and an affair of the heart.
The thrill of each new day becoming
lost to the limits of stagnated imagination,
in the same way as limitless possibilities
become caught in the intractable web of
unexplored destiny.

And thus, pleasantly and presentably
seated, almost nobody looks around.
Instead, dunning and yapping in concert,
they lap at crumbs of comfort that
fall from those higher tables;
Time caught, as child and avarice collide
across horizons infinitely wide;
whilst back and forth the profits stream,
just out of reach, as in a dream

Share this:

Like this:

Published by bongler

Been scribbling since I can remember. Used to sit with my mother and read poetry as a kid. She particularly enjoyed the English romantics; so naturally enough so do I. But any kind of poetry worth reading as far as I'm concerned.
View all posts by bongler

Brilliantly written, I am drawn to this piece, which in my mind, explores those lost in middle class comfort and lacking or forgetting their rights to imagination, individualism and originality. They settle to have the crumbs of higher bosses and greed thrown down to them, nodding in respect and conformity. So many are lost in this type of routine and world. As you say in your poem, ” It is just the way it is”. But once in awhile the light does shine through and someone comes to appreciate the beauty of getting back to earth, down to earth and retreating into his or her own instincts with nature —

Sometimes, the sun shines through;
when it does, there are those who
glean an understanding of how a man
can enjoy the soil trapped beneath
cracked and weathered fingernails;
how he can trace each precious little
seed to its final windblown rest.

It’s rare but it exists and is possible. Blessed are those who do see this light. Thank you for sharing this timely and very significant poem!